


Landing Solidly

by Dr_Cat



Series: Landing [2]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Commitment, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Cat/pseuds/Dr_Cat
Summary: Change comes with time, character comes with resolve.
Series: Landing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815523
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story can stand on its own, but I recommend reading Landing Softly to get the full impact.

I forgot . . .

We watched Invasion of the Mummy Giants from Mars that night.

We thanked the AllSpark we were still around to do so.

We defied death once again; reason enough to celebrate.

We survived another day; just like the days before it and the many more after.

I remember . . .

He asked a simple, yet problematic question at the time: "What happens if we don't win?"

He listened to my brief, vulnerable answer: "I don't know."

He responded with a smug, perceptive tone: "Knowing you; become an Autobot."

He laughed at my fiery, but playful contention: "Over your extinguished spark!"

I think . . .

It was just a joke between us; our usual style of banter. We meant nothing by it.

It became a warped sense of foreshadowing; our terrible prophecy. Why had we said it?

It remains a pang in my spark; the guilt I share in. I'll always regret it.

It is a memory, a dream, and a nightmare; one that never should have been. But that isn't true, is it?

I believe . . .

The loss didn't impose a sadness beyond my ability to cope, just my capacity to feel.

The ability to grieve wasn't in me anymore.

The past damaged that long before the war began.

The problem is I'm right about one and wrong about the other.

I hear . . .

'You're alive! I'm glad you made it.'

'You're forgiven. I'll never hold it against you either.'

'You're not what you were. I can finally see who you are again.'

'You're home now, partner. I'll always be grateful for that.'

I awake . . .

My optics flash back online, taking in images faster than I can sort through. My sensors frantically cast a net into the waking world looking for information. Gone are the sixty-foot screens and outdated speakers of a dreamt up drive-in theater; their nostalgia chased away by the permanence of this reality just like so many other things . . . just like Breakdown.

So, where do I find myself today, mm?

It's quiet. Dark. Familiar. And sterile.

I'm in the medbay aboard the newly remodeled Nemesis. Tell the truth, I'd rather be back at the drive-in. I must have worked late again, but I'm lying on a medical berth? Usually, I'm at the console. I wonder why . . . Well, at least I'm alone, thank Primus.

Slowly, I gather myself up into a seated position, vaguely aware of the fog about my processor, but completely conscious of the fatigued, awkwardness of my movements. Have I been sedated?! Alarm surges through me as I vault straight up off the berth, triggering the motion lighting in the process before landing solidly on my pedes.

What happened?! Why am I here?!

I . . . I don't remember! . . . Wait . . . no, it's coming back to me; stupid retrograde amnesia. Arcee and I . . . oh, oh, no. I . . . I think I need to lie back down; I'm going to be sick. Please, let me still be dreaming! I couldn't have . . . this can't really be happening to me, can it?

My optics roam the medical outfit, my new domain—well, that was until Ratchet showed up to survey my progress with the new residency program, though the extra set of servos isn't a bad thing. Anyway, I'm searching for something, anything that can refute my fears. I find the complete opposite. Unlocked entrance, powered down computer, nothing pointing to another late night at work. Certainly not promising. Well, maybe I took a . . .

I sigh haggardly. Denial isn't going to help me now, is it?

After Arcee and I returned from our little excursion, we had some fuel and decided to talk more in the rec room. Undoubtedly, that's when I slipped off to dreamland. Argh, I must have thoroughly exhausted myself last night to have fallen into recharge like that. I can't believe I did this! For the love of . . . I might as well have asked for a berthtime story and some warm energon. How embarrassing . . . Still, that only explains why I'm in here . . . How I got up here is the real question.

Obviously, someone brought me, but it's imperative I know who. Arcee, as impressive for a two-wheeler as she may be, couldn't have hauled me up on her own nor would she when help was more appropriate. That meant she had to call somebody in.

Yeesh, it's bad enough she had to see me balling like a sparkling and babbling like an idiot. But, I suppose I trust her. After all, she did save me from plummeting to my death and a tedious lecture from Magnus—which would have been just as horrible. Then there's the fact she's so easy to talk to . . . Well, nevertheless, having someone else know about this is just too unthinkable.

What if they spread it around? I would never be able to live it down! I'm already seen as a traitor or a coward; I don't want to be seen as a sniveling one at that. But, they wouldn't do that, right? They're Autobots and they don't do things like indulge in idle gossip . . .

What am I saying; of course they do! Rumor mills work everywhere with everyone. They'll tear what little of my reputation is left to smithereens!

Okay, stop, stop! For one thing, I am blowing this way out of proportion. For another, since when do I care what others think about me; especially the Autobots? Well, since I became one really; my survival kind of depends on it now.

I can't believe I did this! I wish I could go back and undo this whole thing. Ugh, that was one of the topics of our conversation last night, wasn't it?!

Alright, calm down. Arcee didn't tell Magnus anything when we got back and she's not the type to spout out random details . . . but that's no guarantee. For all I know, they could be keeping me in here because they think I'm mentally unstable.

Augh! I should have retired to my quarters early like I've been doing, but no. I had to clear my thoughts with a short drive around the block which turned into a massive . . . emotional . . . meltdown! Enough! I'm being too dramatic. I need to go about this rationally and come up with a suitable course of action; like surgically removing a few vocalizers.

Ah, seriously though, I wasn't restrained to the berth so that's a good sign. Still doesn't help me find out who else knows about this. Mm, besides Arcee, Bumblebee and Ratchet remained here while the rest had gone off to enjoy some much-needed downtime in New Kaon. Well, most of them did. Magnus doesn't seem to understand the meaning of the phrase _take a break_ , so I guess that still put him here too. Anyway, my reputational fate could be in the servos of the bug, Ole Cog, or Ultra Migraine—nicknames were given respectively, of course.

I begin to pace the length of the medical bay, taking care to measure my steps along the paneled flooring in hopes of not alerting anyone nearby to my wakefulness. The last thing I want is someone coming in to check up on me . . . which makes me wonder, what time is it? How long have I been in power down? Curse this ship's windowless design!

Quickly, I run over to the computer console, frantically queuing up my internal chronometer. As I reach the workstation, my reflection becomes visible in the dormant screen . . . what the . . . ? Are those scratches?! Forget the time. I need a polisher, stat. I look terrible!

I make a swift about-face and head straight for one of my many hidden stashes of esthetic products. Doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for in the crawlspace underneath berth number one. Considering it's not gouges marring my finish just surface nicks, I don't think I'll need to employ the buffer. Still, I believe I deserve showroom shine after what I've been through.

Heh, Mags would blow a gasket if he knew how much contraband I actually have. Honestly, I don't see what the big deal in owning a few Earth-based car care products is. Wasn't he insistent I develop a better appreciation for the terrestrial ball and its inhabitants anyway? After all, it's one of the things I give humans credit for; their careful maintenance regimen to achieve sweet, glossy automobile perfection. Besides, the homegrown stuff is still in such ridiculously short supply and I need to look good . . . why?

I walk over to an empty workstation and set my things down.

Mm, there's a question I haven't fancied for quite a while; I haven't had to.

I open a jar of carnauba wax and apply some of the sweet-smelling stuff to a clean polishing cloth.

Looking good is routine; a part of who I am, but as to why I need my appearance at its absolute best . . . do I even need a reason anymore?

I sneer in disgust. Of course, I don't. Know what, let's not even go there. I've had quite enough self-reflection time, thank you very much . . . but I wonder if it has anything to do with that survival aspect . . . no, that's enough. Let's focus on rubbing these blemishes out. This always makes me feel better and I need that right now. Still, I can't seem to get my mind to leave the topic alone. Argh, it's like I can't think about anything else . . .

It's not like I allow my vanity to get the better of me, do I? Yeah, right. It derailed me from checking what time it is, for Primus sake!

But what's wrong with wanting to look good? Besides, I have a bigger issue to think about. I still don't know who else saw me like this or how it will be interpreted by the others and . . . that's my vanity talking, isn't it? . . .

Know what, who cares. I don't. If the whole planet thinks I'm a sorry, self-absorbed jerk, at least I'll be a gorgeous one. Nothing's come of my disposition yet and a few more kliks of polishing aren't going to matter.

I focus on working out the flaws in my mesh like I've done so many times before, clearing my thoughts and recalling the feeling of Arcee's arms around me . . . wait. What!? No!

I stare at the marigold color scheme the others insisted upon for this ship's makeover, calming my spark and remembering the taste of my own hopes and fears in last night's chat. Stop it! Please.

I buff more vigorously, listening to the soft hum of equipment and suddenly evoking the sound of Optimus' voice from memory: 'Every sentient being possesses the capacity for change.' Seriously?!

What is wrong with me? Am I losing it?

I briskly set into more scrubbing and begin to pace again; faster this time. Isn't this supposed to be soothing? Mind-numbingly soothing. Why isn't it working?!

"Fine, since you're so insistent, insanity, let's just dig up my entire foundation of existence, shall we; put it on trial even," I say aloud, trying to chase away the ridiculousness of it all with reason. I desperately want to fall into the familiar, enjoyable state grooming is supposed to cause, but I find myself mentally continuing the argument instead.

Accusation: Do I feel I'm vainglorious? Pushy? Self-important? Manipulative? Demanding? Egotistical? Resentful? Hostile? Cold?

Plea: Yes, yes I do; guilty as charged; I know I am. But, I had to be. It goes back to that whole survival thing.

Happy now? . . . No? Well, let's take a look at the circumstances surrounding my life up until recently.

I was a Decepticon—as if I need to go any further than that—but for the sake of argument, it was where the presence of strength, possession of skill, and place of status meant everything. Pathetic didn't cut it. If you didn't fit the part of lethal, useful or important you were pretty much cannon fodder. I didn't want to be cannon fodder so I needed to get into one of those three categories. No problem, right? Ha, everything was a problem.

For instance, the easiest way to ensure rank was to be huge. Larger frames support more threatening alternative forms. After all, what's more terrifying than the sight of a tank rumbling towards you. Being aerial wasn't a bad option either. The sound of fighter aircraft and spy drones thundering across the sky was downright frightening. And let's not forget the brute strength or deadly arsenal that normally accompanied these aforementioned sorts.

Now, sure, a larger bot could compact themselves into something slightly smaller if they chose to, but a smaller bot could never stretch out to something bigger—that whole law of conservation of mass thing. Well, guess who couldn't be a Stryker? So, why not flight? I'll get to that soon. Anyway, scratch physical strength off the list; next, please.

Mm, being insanely skilled or innately privileged worked. If you were a scientist who could invent anything just by brooding over it—shout out to you Shockwave—or a warrior capable of shooting a turbofox from two hundred clicks away you were guaranteed promotion, i.e. safety. Even devious planning and backstabbing seemed to be an admirable skill set to have; it served Starscream well anyway. Others, like Soundwave and Dreadwing, seemed to have a history that placed them in roles of esteem automatically. I wasn't any of these, really. I was the doctor—not that doctor—and I don't know what kind of reality my former compatriots were living in, but doctor didn't carry the same amount of prestige with them as it should have. In fact, it was said like an insult; like I had a glitch or something. Thus, I was struck from two more categories. Hopeless, right? Not quite. I discovered a fourth set of criteria.

I had to approach things differently . . . for example:

My small, ground-based form.

Solution: versatility.

Luxury sports cars didn't exactly strike fear into the sparks of many, but they were quick and maneuverable. Fast enough to get out of dodge when needed; stealthy enough to get into places others couldn't; not to mention a range of options in between. But aircraft can offer the same things; why not flight? Why not completely conform? I'll tell you why. I wasn't about to give up the only part I still had control over or the camaraderie it provided Breakdown and I. Oh, and we can't leave off how remarkably chic high-end automobiles are too; important to the whole vanity point after all . . .

Alright, second issue; my mediocre skills.

My solution: versatility again.

Jack of all trades, master of none; a human expression I think fits nicely—way to go fleshies. Anyway, I wasn't just a doctor, scientist, warrior, scout, or whatever but a combination of all these and more. If my inadequacies surfaced in one area my merits would shine through in another always creating balance. It's what I think surprises the Autobots now, in fact. But, as long as my wins outweighed my losses, the status quo could be maintained, keeping me in a safe position. I wish I could say this worked for everyone, but I can't . . . which kind of reminds me of the third problem:

My supposed insignificance.

Solution: ding, ding, ding . . . you guessed it, versatility.

Self-confidence is not just some cute buzzword, but a multifaceted weapon to wield in all manner of combat. I knew exactly what my strengths were and broadcasted them loud and proud. I also knew my limitations, learned to hide them well, and never purposefully stepped out of them. It earned me a certain level of respect. My nonchalant attitude, over the top mannerisms, and cutting sarcasm kept them guessing. Whether it was with a subordinate, an equal or Lord Megaton himself, I would speak frankly, act casually, and live boldly because I had to measure up to the unique reputation of self-assurance I had built. A mix of façade and nature backed by a partner no longer here . . .

Which leads to what I really don't want to think about. How my past with the Decepticons is only part of the equation. How my problems started before the war and marched right alongside me in the form of desperation, confusion and imbalanced friendship . . . And there it is; the pain.

My pacing slows and I allow my arms to drop to my sides.

The bitter education I received in joining the Decepticons only sharpened the cruel lessons I had already learned and endured before. Luckily, I caught on quick, but I don't believe I'll ever forget my inadequacies as a result of them.

I stop in front of the full-length reflection apparatus I insisted on being in here. I stare at my image, both admiring and admonishing it just like so many vorns ago and ever since; echoes of past fears murmuring in my audiles.

Am I right? Please, tell me what will work. I feel so confused. Am I worthy? Encourage me. I feel so insignificant. Am I safe? Protect me. I feel so doomed. Will I ever be happy? Help me live again. I feel so empty.

Then follows the angry guidance, roaring through my mind.

Don't let them know how you really feel. You're better than that. Make life work for you no matter what. Good enough is never good enough. Look like a punching bag and you'll be a punching bag. Never let them see you crack. You must look good to feel good. Watch out for number one only.

Half my survival, my sanity, hinged on these values learned the hard way, but that's all they preserved; half of me. They couldn't save it all and they couldn't save what counted; my only friend. Contrary to popular belief, I don't always see perfection when I look in a mirror. Always striving, never satisfied, forever condescending, forever jealous, forever superficial and completely oblivious. For all my hard-earned skills and ingrained dogmas, I'm starting to see none of them will help me here anymore and I believe that's the hardest lesson of all . . .

I can't stand it!

"What is wrong with me?!"

This kind of scrap hasn't bothered me in eons. Why do I care now? For crying out loud, I'm standing around here having an argument with myself like a crazy bot! That's why I don't dwell on the past; no regrets, no fuss. I'm just reliving yesterday . . .

I glower at my reflection as stupid lubricant beads at the corners of my optics. I am not weak! I stomp back over to the platform to tidy up, not caring if the whole ship hears me at this point. I've probably got tons of data work to enter in and a long-winded lecture on self-care from Ratchet to hear about . . .

_Swish._

What was that?!

The automatic door opens and I can't help but direct my sights at it with a startled yelp, accidentally dropping my container of polish. Ugh, Arcee strikes again. I swear she's trying to give me a spark attack!

But, in her defense, she looks just as surprised as I am. I quickly reclaim my composure, making sure my irritation is palpable. I'm certainly not giving an encore performance of last night and I don't want to say or do anything else to embarrass myself further. Though, this could be an opportunity to find out how I ended up in here . . . no, I don't care anymore. I have to shut down any and all conversation, period.

"You're awake. Feeling any better?" she asks in such a way all comments about her rude entry vanish from my processor. She sounds so genuinely concerned; so innocently disarming. I hate it. How am I supposed to work with that, huh?

Anger? Indifference? Honesty!? That's what got me into this mess, to begin with; all this sappy Autobot stuff.

No, I choose deception.

"Fine, never better. It's amazing what a full cycle of power down can do. Grant it, I could have used another round of energon last night, but you know," I say smoothly, tracking her movement towards me and wishing my spark would stop pounding. I've never been this nervous about lying before. I must be afraid she'll catch me in it or something. She is rather perceptive . . . and quiet.

I watch as she keeps coming closer and closer before . . . she bends down? Oh, right; the jar of polish. She picks it up and stands, a bit stiffly I might add. She looks to me, then to the jar and back to me. I wish she would say something already. I can't gauge whether her quirked optic ridge is from suspicion or judgment, not that I should care what she thinks anyway . . . Ah, she speaks.

"Fine, huh?"

Mm, definitely sounds like suspicion, but wait, she continues.

"Wasn't it you who said you can tell a lot about a bot based on their upkeep?" she says before reading the label, "California Crystal Carnauba Wax; An exclusive. Sounds a bit indulgent to me."

And there's the judgment, though I can't seem to get away from the way she said indulgent...Bah, I don't know what she's getting at. Obviously, she's implying I'm not alright, but why . . . because of car wax!?—which she could use by the way. And why does she suddenly care whether I'm fine or not, anyhow? Why is she even here? Ugh.

"Well, only the best for the best," I say with a winning smile, taking the container from her as she offers it and seeing a wisp of discomfort from her as I do so, "How are you?"

"Fine. A little tired, but fine," she says lightly, but I can tell pain when I hear it. Obviously, I'm not the only one lying here. Now, I'm intrigued. I set the container of wax back on the table and look at her.

"Good, good. Well, if you're done checking up on me, I believe I have work to do."

"Actually, that's part of the reason I came in here . . ." she begins before I interrupt.

"Really? Wouldn't have anything to do with that arm, would it?" I ask pointedly, gesturing to her right limb. The astonished look on her faceplate causes me to smirk, at first. She wasn't expecting that from me but, honestly, neither was I. A frown replaces my humor. Was she injured last night?

I mean, that was an awful lot of strain for one individual to handle, especially someone of her frame size. Had she hyperextended an orthogonal joint? Or torn a S.E. cable? Is it inhibiting her range of motion?

"Well, Ratchet already had a chance to look at it last night; said it was a strain," she states, glancing down at the appendage.

"Oh," I say simply, but she looks back up at me as if I gave an exposition.

"But it doesn't hurt to have a second opinion," she adds sympathetically. Humph, as if I need her sympathy. At least, now I have an answer to my 'whose privy' dilemma. Yup, definitely a long sermon on self-care in my future.

"No, no. I'm sure Ratchet covered all the basics."

"Yeah, and it does nothing for how sore I am now," she says, clutching the offending arm. Huh, knowing her as I do now, I'm starting to have my own suspicions.

"I'm surprised old fussbot, Ratchet, didn't fit you with a brace unless, of course, you took the liberty of removing it, hmm?"

She doesn't respond immediately; a sure sign of guilt. Normally, I have little tolerance for difficult patients, but when she looks up at me with the cutest, sheepish optics . . . well, I find myself being charmed into benevolence. Just one of the many contrasts between my old and new life.

"Tsk, tsk, Arcee. Disobeying doctor's orders; not very conscientious of you."

"Right, like you don't know anything about violating orders," she says in irony. Oh, I'm all about the sarcasm.

"Of course not, my dear," I declare with mock indignity, "I am, after all, a professional above all else."

"Well, would the professional mind getting the lady something for the pain, or is he too busy applying prohibited substances to his finish?" she says, grinning in that self-satisfied way of hers. I must admit, that was a pretty good comeback . . . Wasn't I supposed to shut down any and all conversation?

"Follow me," I say, conceding defeat and moving off to one of the cabinets containing the pain inhibitors. I hear her short laugh; a token of her victory in our little battle of wits. It both annoys and enlivens me. I could just let it go; should just let it go . . . but, as I take in the different tools at my disposal, the desire to get back at her is too strong.

"So, I believe you had something to tell me."

"Yes, there's going to be . . . What is that?!" she exclaims as I pull out a relatively harmless, yet intimidating looking device. I believe it's the rather long, rather sharp crossover tweezers that set bots on edge. Heh, whatever, the look of horror on her is priceless.

"Oh, this," I say innocently, twisting the tool between my digits and giving it a proper showing, "They're forceps; used for surgeries and dissections mostly. Can act as a heat sink for those less apt at the art of soldering and provide a means of switching off pain receptors."

She keeps giving me this look which teeters between nervousness and scandal. She doesn't know whether to ask _are you being serious_ or _seriously?!_

Oh, I just have to hold this straight face long enough to deliver the punchline . . .

"But they're real value comes from turning bad-mannered patients into agreeable ones," I say smoothly, a small grin creeping out at the end. Uh, oh, those optics look like null-rays. I think I might have actually upset her. Not really my intention, but then I notice her smile.

"You have a warped sense of humor, Knock Out. You know that?" she states with a shake of her helm. I can't quite place why, but it's amazing how relieving the laughter in her voice feels.

"I like to think of it as . . . clever," I say with just the right amount of sincerity to it.

"Well, whatever you call it; not funny," she says with a little more weight. I place the instrument back.

"Alright, my apologies, Arcee. However, rest truly is the best course of medicine in this case and nothing works better than keeping the area immobile," I say, catching the slight disappointment in her features, "Fortunately, there is an effective alternative."

I smile as her optics brighten; happy patient, happy doctor. Reaching back into the supplies, I pull out a vial of cooling emollient and a spool of covering foil. I nod back towards the medical table and she heads for it, clearing a workspace for me; thoughtful of her. I place down the materials and gesture to her arm with open servos . . .

"May I?"

Without the slightest hesitation, she offers up her arm and I'm surprised by her confidence. I realize Arcee's never had any personal medical assistance from me before—a commendable feat considering I've already seen most of the bots on this planet twice—but not too long ago we were staunch adversaries; I expect there to be some uncertainty. Pugh, some Decepticons still deal with me in uneasy compliance and I can't say I blame them.

 _Trust was too precious and fragile at present_ . . . my thoughts of last night floating back to me. So, I wonder if it's inexperience or trust I'm seeing now?

I take her arm gently, silently wrestling against that question and its answer. She breaks up my deliberation with a statement I didn't quite catch.

"Come again," I say a little too timidly for my liking.

"There was something else I thought you should know," she says in a tone I can only describe as warningly.

"Let me guess," I interrupt briskly, "Ultra M wants another 'coaching' with me, today."

"Not where I was going, but definitely a possibility," she says with a laugh.

"I don't see what's so funny," I state reaching down to grab the cooling gel, "You've never had to sit through performance evaluations that felt more like disciplinary actions before."

"Doctor, I recommend you watch your tone," she says in a firm, stern voice deeper than her usual. Is she impersonating Ultra Magnus? A genuine laugh escapes me and she looks to me with an astute smile.

"You better not tell him I said that."

"Cross my spark," I say in mirth, applying the balm to her joints, "Good impression, though."

"Mm, yeah, but Ultra Magnus is fair, Knock Out," she says seriously I note, "Maybe if you didn't give him so many opportunities to penalize you, there'd be less coaching."

"Well, not all of us are content with the daily grind and protocol. Forgive me if I dare try and have a little fun or relaxation," I say with more spite than I meant to let out. I know she's right; Magnus is decent compared to some of the leadership I've encountered and its why some of my insecurities of the past bubble up. I don't feel like having this conversation.

"Just a suggestion. What is this stuff anyway? Smells . . . strong," she says, gesturing to the emollient and, commendably, changing the subject.

"It's the stuff you'll be putting on every morning until the pain subsides. You'll want to keep it wrapped too," I smile, handing her the bottle and picking up the foil.

"Maybe I should have stuck with the brace, huh?" she says turning the blue vial in her servo and giving me a smirk. I shrug a bit as I focus on wrapping her arm.

"You'll get fewer stares with this treatment plus a little more movement, but I am going to have to ask you to reframe from any heavy lifting."

"Thanks. You know, it's your fault this happened in the first place."

"Uh, how was I supposed to know a giant crevice opened up over there? It used to be all solid ground," I state defensively.

"That didn't cause this. It happened when I caught you from slipping out of your seat in the rec room. Twisted it the wrong way against the counter."

"Oh," I say simply, trying to conceal my embarrassment. Why didn't I just retire early last night?

"Yeah, oh. That's the second time I saved you from a fall. Let's try and be a little more careful from now on, okay?" she says in a joking tone. Part of me is still mortified by the circumstances surrounding her injury while another wants to be offended at her jab. I chuckle instead.

"Thank you. Certainly not one of my better evenings I'll admit, but I assure you I didn't come out completely unscathed either."

"Really?" she asks with just a touch of delicious concern. I can't resist jabbing back.

"Yes. You left quite a few scratches on my finish with your little rescues," I say humorously, though there is a hint of allegation there. She promptly rolls her optics. She seems to do that a lot.

"Sorry, Knock Out. I'll remember to bring a buffer next time I need to save your life."

"See that you do," I say with a grin, placing the foil back down and releasing her arm. As she admires my handy work, I focus in on the fact she has a ridiculous amount of nicks herself. Seeing as she's my patient now, we're definitely going to have to fix that.

"And while we're on the subject of buffing . . ."

"Seriously! I'm not interested in cleaning up your paint job especially when . . ."

"Ahem, more like I'll be the one attending to your paint job," I interrupt dryly as I turn to retrieve a tool suitable for the job from my stash.

"Oh," she says simply.

"Yeah, oh. You misjudge me, Arcee. I can be considerate too, you know. Besides, I'm already in impeccable condition. Ah, this should work nicely," I say coming back to the table with one of my smaller rotary buffers and a variety of application pads.

"Sorry."

"Apology accepted," I say dismissively before holding up the buffer, "Now, should we get started?"

"Um, if you don't mind, I think I can manage it myself," she says politely, reaching for the device with her good servo.

"Suit yourself," I concede, handing it over. Mm, I wonder what she thinks of me now . . . yikes. Where is that coming from?!

"And Knock Out?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"You missed a spot."

What! I look down, scanning every inch of myself for imperfections. I don't see any so I glance back to her for clarification only to find a poorly concealed grin. It's my turn to roll my optics.

"Really now? Are you always this nice to your rescuees?" I ask smartly, anticipating a quick, clever retort. I receive silence instead. I look to her and watch in concern as she appears to freeze. Soon, brief tremors begin to rock her frame and her grip on the buffer grows vice-like. Is she having a negative reaction to the cooling gel?! Great, just what I need; medical malpractice.

I circle round the table and stop in front of her. The way she's staring off into nothing alarms me.

"Arcee?"

Her optics dart up to me revealing panic and little recognition; almost as if she were experiencing a . . . flashback. Arcee? Trauma? I didn't think . . . I didn't know . . . Primus, did I trigger something?

"Arcee. Arcee, you're safe. We're aboard the reclaimed Nemesis, remember?" I say in a calm, quiet voice, instinctively remembering years of experience dealing with shock and trauma. But it's more than training, isn't it? I remember all the things she shared with me last night; all the things she had to endure too. I'm genuinely upset to see a bot as tough as Arcee shaken like this and it frightens me that I care so much. I want to soothe her pain because it hurts me too. No, it's not just training. It's empathy and compassion for someone close to me; the surprise of knowing I'm still capable of it. Maybe this sappy stuff isn't as off-putting as I believed it was or as I've been made to believe. Just unfamiliar. Unpracticed.

And as I watch her troubled features begin to still, I hear . . . _You're not what you were. I can finally see who you are. You're home now, partner. And I'll always be grateful for that._

" . . .To put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness." Ephesians 4:22-24


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't anticipate Arcee being here.

Humph, I didn't think Knock Out would still be here.

But here they are, speaking to each other in hushed tones. They've yet to notice I've even walked in. Mm, I can only speculate on what they're talking about as I'm too far to hear, but whatever it is they're discussing, it must be humorous; Knock Out looks rather jovial. I can't tell if Arcee is or not; her back's to me, but I have an unobstructed view of him. He's knelt down in front of her in somewhat of a disarming fashion. Given his particular background, it's surprising how . . . good-natured Knock Out can be when he wants to. It never ceases to amaze me. However, from what I've heard, he also has a reputation with difficult patients. His official statement on the matter is, and I quote:

" _You try treating someone as impossible as Starscream, mm. Then you can lecture me on my bedside manner."_

If only he knew. Perhaps, I should share with him my own experiences doctoring the infamous Decepticon commander sometime.

Hmm, speaking of difficult patients, I see Arcee took off her brace. After Bulkhead, she's the most resistant to medical care. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help but notice the cooling balm and wrapping foil on the worktable. She's allowing Knock Out to retreat her wrist; interesting. Makes me wonder if Bumblebee is on to something there. Well, my curiosity about that situation is going to have to wait. I've got a lot of things to accomplish and little time to do so; some of which involves speaking with Knock Out about his welfare.

I lightly cue my vocalizer to grab their attention, but, the way these two jump up, you'd of thought I fired a shot. Neither of them says anything, which I find rather odd and a little awkward. If I didn't know any better, it would appear these two were embarrassed. But Arcee is rather composed in manner and, Primus knows, Knock Out's shameless. Still, they're downright speechless, so I decide to guide the conversation instead.

"Hello, Arcee. Knock Out. Good to see you're both feeling better," I greet walking further into the infirmary.

"Hello, Ratchet," Arcee finally responds casually.

"Good morning, doctor," Knock Out says with a smirk. He knows I'm not keen on title salutations, but I let that slide as there is a more glaring problem with his statement.

"It's afternoon, Knock Out," I say simply, giving him a slightly confused look, I'm sure. Arcee nearly laughs while his confident demeanor falters for a moment. He mumbles something about scratches and windows before crossing his arms.

"Noted."

"Well, I can see you two were in the middle of something. You may finish up with what you were doing but, Knock Out, I need to see you about supervision afterward. I'll be in the auxiliary office; still need to finish entering in those OMI reports," I say as I begin to cross the room. My colleague nods before unfolding his arms and gesturing towards the buffer in Arcee's servo. That, too, is interesting.

"Take it with you, but, please, bring it back," he states discreetly all the while trying to obscure a jar on the table from my sight. Some kind of prohibited finish care product, no doubt. Mm, he's grown more conscientious since my last visit. I keep on walking, pretending not to notice for now. After all, I already know about the stockpile underneath berth number one and I haven't informed Ultra Magnus yet. It's not very high on my priority list. I've got hundreds of things to consider at present and this past week's findings were chief among them.

Combined with what I've been hearing lately from the others and the medical readings I acquired last night, I gather Knock Out's not doing as well as he appears to be. No one has directly spoken to him about it, but plenty of bots are willing to speculate and that includes leadership.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't bother with this sort of thing. I never liked the idea of Knock Out joining us in the first place. It just seemed it would always create unnecessary tension within the team. Besides that, it's nearly impossible to collect any personal information from my counterpart which isn't entirely surprising, considering his past station in life. If I understand correctly, Decepticons didn't particularly like trusting others and that went double for their medic. That's evident in Knock Out's vastly different ideology towards medicine, though, I must admit, I respect his adaptability and willingness to challenge "conventional" wisdom. Still, I don't agree with everything Knock Out believes and I'll taper any praise I give him until I see progress in those areas.

Then again, he has shown considerable improvement since working with us. I haven't heard any significant qualms about him from the rest of the team and he's diligent in his work. However, the fact he's been so cooperative only serves to make the relationship between us more complicated. I don't like him, but I don't hate him either. He's a Decepticon turned Autobot and we've benefited greatly from it thus far. So, with all things considered, it's why I'm willing to make an exception and get involved, though I'm not looking forward to it.

As I walk into the secondary wing of the infirmary, I hear the two exchange more dialogue in soft voices before the door shuts behind me. Bumblebee's told me before, that out of all of us, it appears Arcee is the easiest for Knock Out to communicate with. I suppose it could be he sees her as less threatening than the others, but something tells me there's more to it than that, especially given their mannerisms. Arcee is such a fiercely dedicated and reserved kind of bot while Knock Out seems so flamboyant and unattached; I can't imagine the two of them getting along very well unless they had something in common. Ha, too bad she couldn't talk to him about all this.

Well, I hope they finish up soon so I can get this colleague-to-colleague chat over and done with.

For now, let's focus on those OMIs until he gets in here.

I boot up the console at my disposal in the small office and begin moving data from the Nemesis' main archives to subsequent files designated for medical records. It's a slow, tedious procedure, but one which has to be done. Too bad Knock Out is only allowed to enter in data, not reallocate it or else he'd being doing this . . . too bad about a lot of things, actually.

I sigh. I don't want to travel down this thought pattern long, but there were so many different outcomes I wished for and so many I hoped against. Cybertron was restored, but not without cost. Bittersweet seems to be an understatement, but no other sentiment applies. All those eons together, Optimus and I, fighting and surviving, finally witnessing Megatron's defeat and bringing back our home world only to lose my oldest and dearest friend to some cruel twist of fate; it still feels like a betrayal.

Logically, I know there was no other choice, no other way; a sacrifice that had to be made, but it still translates to abandonment to my spark. Thankfully, I'm no longer plagued by the guilt of 'what ifs', but the loss is still felt immeasurably. There are too many reminders of my grief, both here and on Earth. Take into account the partial council's insistence that Team Prime disband, and it adds even greater strain on my existence. Hopefully, our plans work out and I can finally get the peace I'm in desperate need of, but, for now, I'll focus on logging these files instead.

About halfway through the process, I realize . . . I'm halfway through the process. For mercy's sake, Knock Out, how long does it take to treat a sprain?!

"Hmm, I don't know sometimes . . ." I mumble to myself as I head back through the door; half expecting the main room to be empty, but it's not. Knock Out's still there, standing quietly by the workstation and staring at the closed infirmary doors. He looks confused, stunned perhaps, but he quickly takes notice of me.

"My apologies for the wait. She just left . . ." he says with a certain element of distraction in his voice. Yes, there is definitely something going on between those two, but, before I have a chance to address that, his usual charisma returns.

"Well, let's get this party started, shall we?"

"It is not a party, Knock Out. It is supervision; something you appear to require a lot of," I say flatly. He frowns.

"Hilarious," he deadpans, taking a few steps closer before adding, "So, what have I done wrong this time?"

I want to sigh tiredly, but I don't. I need him to listen not argue. We also need some privacy. I motion for him to follow me into the auxiliary room and he does so. After closing the door behind us, I turn to see his bored expression and try to think of the best way to approach this. I've been told praising someone's work normally got you a more manageable conversation, so even though I know this is only going to inflate his ego; even though I want to taper any approval I give him; the gratitude is real and, for Knock Out, this should work.

"For starters . . ."

"Here we go," he grumbles, rolling his optics and crossing his arms. I continue without missing a beat.

"You haven't done anything wrong. In fact, it's quite the opposite. You've done an excellent job with the new residency program. The trainees are showing real potential and I'm recommending you continue overseeing the venture."

"Oh, well, ah . . . yes, . . . thank you."

His expression is priceless. Humility looks good on you, Knock Out. You should wear it more often. Of course, I keep that thought to myself.

"Uh-huh, and everything appears to be well structured. All the records are in order, the inventories are fully stocked and it's been a long while since I've seen a practice so well organized," I say in all honesty and, ah-ha, there it is. That smug, self-assured smirk of his. He's trying to remain casual, but it's easy to see he's genuinely pleased with himself.

"Well, what can I say? I'm keen on running a neat and clean operation. Quality doesn't happen all on its own, you know," he says while uncrossing his arms and practically purring with pride. Ordinarily, I'd be put off by such self-importance, but I know it's just a facet of his personality and it isn't like he receives this kind of praise very often.

"I won't argue with you there," I say lightly. I'll allow him to bask in a job well done for now because, ultimately, the rest of our discussion is going to be tough to get through. Unfortunately, it appears he's seen through me. His expression becomes more suspicious.

"Aren't you being surprisingly gracious today? Any particular reason or did you just wake up on the sunny side of the street this morning?" he asks evenly. I can't help but vent in frustration at the antagonizing tone of his voice.

"Maybe, if I wasn't interrupted, mocked, or accused every time I spoke with you I'd be a little gracious more often," I snap. His optics narrow.

"Just get to the point, already; end this little charade of a supervision."

So much for discretion. I should have let Bumblebee or Ultra Magnus handle this, but they don't have the medical aspect of this either. If only I had half the patience Optimus did . . . No, I certainly couldn't afford to go down that train of thought right now. Maybe Knock Out's correct; let's get straight down to business.

"You remember the main catalog project?" I say calmly.

"Yes. But I thought we still had a ways to go on it," he drawls with more intrigue than anger this go around. I nod.

"Well, thanks to you and Raf's help, I was able to finally access the rest of those encrypted files from the Nemesis' mainframe and Darkmount's databases, including the location of Decepticon storage sites on this and several other planets. That's not to mention the research data and subjective logs of Shockwave, Starscream, and even Megatron himself."

"Good for you," he says snidely, but his expression is distant as if he's unsure what to make of this information; wary, perhaps. I don't blame him. These days, information has the potential to be dangerous and, in this case, it is. I decide to choose my next words carefully.

"The council, of course, already had access to your own notes and partial records, but now it appears there'll be more information at their disposal."

I notice his optics shift focus from mine to various locations in the room, before quickly returning to me. His gaze is more calculating. I imagine, he's connecting the pieces together and he doesn't like what he sees. Again, I don't blame him, because I don't necessarily like it either; it messes with my views on the matter.

"They want to try my case," he states numbly, placing one servo to the side of his helm.

"No, they want to review your case in light of the new information. I doubt it will move to trial. I can't see them coming to any different conclusions than we did before, Knock Out," I say calmingly.

"Well, excuse me if I don't find that reassuring right now," he snaps, rapidly moving his arms up and outward in an irritated fashion. He seems to regret the outburst, however, as he looks away. In a much more subdued voice, he asks, "When are they going to review it?"

"As soon as they finish reading through all the data, I'm sure," I state seriously. He shutters his optics.

"But I'm part of the team. You guys . . ."

"Are not fully in charge, anymore, I'm afraid."

"Scrap."

"Please, try and keep things in perspective. You're not the only one on their radar and you're certainly not the most grievous on their list . . ."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?! Gee, should I be grateful or insulted," he says irritably, proceeding to pace in a small circle. Hmm, he's already agitated and to think, this is only the beginning.

"Knock Out . . ."

"Here I was thinking this was going to be a lecture on self-care and instead you're telling me there's a chance I may be locked up," he exclaims anxiously.

"Knock Out, no one's going to . . .!"

"Why are they even doing this, anyway? Don't we have more important things to worry about like the reconstruction of society? Our planet?!"

"Knock Out, listen to me . . ."

"The war's over, isn't it? Am I wrong? I mean, yes, things happened but . . ."

"Knock Out!" I shout, growing anxious myself.

"It's not fair! Someone like Wheeljack gets to slaughter, literally, millions of Decepticons in ways outlawed by both sides and he's considered a war hero while I interrogate a few dozen Bots under posted guidelines and am deemed a war criminal. How is that fair?!" he rages. The comment infuriates me, but it's clear his underlying motivation is fear. I need to hold on to perspective myself . . .

"Will you stop it!?"

"What exactly is in those records, anyway?" he expresses, still pacing, but looking to me nervously. I sigh.

"Funny you should ask."

"Well, I'm not laughing," he retorts bitterly. I shake my helm. What he doesn't know is that I've yet to deliver his data to the council and it's not through a lack of diligence on my part. I purposely withheld Knock Out's detailed reports for a great number of reasons, but, the main one concerns his wellbeing.

"I haven't supplied the council with anything of yours yet."

He stops pacing and turns towards me. He seems astounded at first, but this quickly gives way to mistrust.

"Why not? What do you want?" he asks in such a cold, dark tone it actually catches me off guard, but it's not enough to rattle my resolve.

"I don't want anything from you, except maybe some honest answers," I say firmly, turning to face him squarely. He sizes me up carefully. If he's planning on a physical confrontation he's sorely outmatched.

Placing one servo on his hip and the other to his chin, Knock Out's whole demeanor shifts to one of indifference.

"Is that all?" he states flatly, but his optics hold an edge. I've learned to trust the optics over the tone of voice through the millennia. He's still agitated.

"Please, just listen," I implore him with as much serenity as I can muster. He lets out a long, slow vent, allowing his arms to drop by his sides. He nods; a little less tense. Suddenly, I'm not so sure where to start.

"I don't want to get into an argument," I say simply, trying to bide my time as I put my thoughts together. He stares at me in annoyance but waits for me to continue. I decide to speak frankly; it's the only way I know how to communicate matters like this.

"I don't object to our new government making informed decisions nor do I disagree with their commitment to the ideals of justice and peace. However, I'm also fully aware those ideals rest very much in an Autobot's favor at present."

"But, I am an Autobot," he says defensively. I nod.

"Yes, you are and that's why I told them you'll be presenting the records with me once we go over them."

"Seriously?" he says with what I can only describe as uncertain relief.

"We'll take a look at it after we address my next concern . . ."

"There's another concern?! What could be more concerning than this?!" he blurts out. I give him a weary look and he offers an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, please, continue."

"I'd be lying if I said I was only interested in the . . . professional aspects of this problem, Knock Out."

"Professional aspects? What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm concerned for your personal wellbeing, too."

"Oh, that," he says with a cool smirk, his relaxed attitude returning, "I didn't know you cared, but I suppose I should have guessed you wouldn't have left that off. So, what did Arcee tell you?"

"Nothing," I say simply. He shutters his optics a few times as if in disbelief.

"Really?" he asks skeptically. I have to resist the urge to scowl.

"Should she of?" I question with equal suspicion. He sighs.

"Look, I take very good care of myself if you haven't noticed and yesterday was just a fluke. I had a particularly grueling schedule and must have underestimated how drained I was. That's all."

For an ex-Decepticon, he's certainly not very apt at the art of falsehoods. Then again, it works against him that I have this . . .

Reaching over to my left, I activate the computer terminal. After tapping in a few commands, his medical dossier appears. I hear his sharp, strangled intake and watch as his nonchalant appearance tightens back into apprehension.

"So, you performed some diagnostic work on me while I was down. Very forward of you," he says insinuatingly.

"It's standard procedure, Knock Out. You know that."

"Yes, and you know that I've requested to do my own examinations," he grinds out.

"Even while you're unconscious?" I scoff.

"Whatever. I don't see what you're worried about," he sneers before returning his gaze to the screen with a frown. I know he understands what he's looking at, so, I don't have to explain the findings or what they mean. All the evidence displayed points towards medical significance and I know he can see that. But I still need some answers.

"Rises in your system's baseline pressure levels, an indication that your recharge cycles are interrupted on a regular basis, signs of your pain receptors being repeatedly dampened; not to mention verbal reports of your unrelenting exhaustion and erratic refueling habits. I believe I have a reason to be concerned," I say sternly.

"Well, I disagree. I've just been under a lot of stress lately. After all, I'm normally the only senior medical officer here; it tends to get a bit chaotic around here and this new development certainly isn't helping things. Let's get back to the bigger problem and go over those records you uncovered," he says testily. I remain silent; the only sound filling our audiles being the hum of the ship's engines. He looks back to me with an unreadable expression. I surmise I'm giving him the same unresponsiveness. He wants to change the subject, but I'm not willing to let it go.

"You're aware I could subject you to a full evaluation," I finally say, settling on a quiet, composed tone. He narrows his optics as I shudder mine.

"And I'm sure you're aware it won't do any good. Why are you being so . . . difficult? I said I'm fine."

"If you're fine, you shouldn't object to any questions then."

"For Primus sake . . . you're not going drop this are you? You people are fanatically adamant about pushing the issue. What? Can't I even deal with stress privately around here? No, it has to become the subject of public debate, doesn't it? Well, Doctor Ratchet, ask away," he says flippantly while crossing his arms.

"Tell me, how are you managing said stress?" I ask, folding my own arms across my chassis and looking to him expectantly. He rolls his optics.

"I have my ways of coping."

"So I've gathered, but pretty soon you won't have access to many of them anymore," I say coolly. He drops both servos to his waist.

"I don't know what you're talking about . . ."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I interrupt, stepping over to access the computer fully, "According to the accounts of your former compatriots, your favorite hobbies include illegal street racing with humans, experimenting with potentially dangerous projects in the lab and buffing your finish. With Cybertron growing and changing as rapidly as it is, I don't foresee you having access to the space bridge or any restricted labs or even your supply of Earth-based cosmetics for much longer. How will you cope then?"

He remains silent, but his optics are alight with what I can only describe as abhorrence. I proceed to bring up his records and he proceeds to lean in closer to get a good look at them, crossing his arms again.

There's actually an impressive amount of data on him. It seems the Decepticons had quite a bit to say about their previous CMO. It was all in the linguistics of a military document, but some of Knock Out's basic characteristics had shown up time and again. He had been viewed as opportunistic, dramatic, and pleasure-seeking; intermittently reliable, relatively competent, and fairly crucial to the Decepticon cause. Interestingly enough, he was often chastised for things I would consider commendable such as prudence and candor. Then again, these were Decepticon reports commissioned by a tyrannical leader near the brink of madness on the best of days.

In short, it appears Knock Out's conduct was hit or miss among his former comrades. One entry points to him abandoning duties for no apparent reason while another describes him deserting the Nemesis on at least three separate occasions. There's even evidence to suggest he conspired with Starscream to terminate Megatron. It's not what one would expect from a chief medical officer, but, then again, Megatron had bizarre views on what accounted for insubordination.

Nonetheless, this gave the impression Knock Out was impulsive, erratic, if not immature at times. It would certainly explain his running off yesterday. No, what's truly surprising is that his records don't just stop with his time spent within the Decepticon ranks. Apparently, he has a speckled past concerning illicit wheeling and dealing. It seemed his main objective had been caste jumping. Regardless of my own personal beliefs of our former way of governing, this does point to Knock Out being a very resourceful and determined mech; one who may still be trying to barter his way through life now.

I allow him a few more kliks to peruse the data for himself, taking note of his mixed reactions to it. Astonishment, anger, scandal, confusion. A year ago, I might have found satisfaction in his discomfort, but as I watch his grieved optics, I find no fulfillment in it now.

"All of this is straight from the mainframes of the Nemesis and Darkmount?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I say simply.

There's something on the screen he seems to be gravitating towards and I wonder if it's the same thing grabbing my attention. It appears Knock Out served as second in command for a little while—something which the council is definitely going to take notice of, unfortunately.

"I don't intend to hurt you with this information. I want to help," I say after a moment. He continues to stare at the screen, clicking the digits of his right servo along his left arm. Finally, he speaks in a controlled tone.

"And how can you help me?"

"Well, there are a few options . . ." I begin, but I don't get a chance to finish as he forcefully interrupts.

"Oh, really! And do any of those options involve turning back time, because this . . ." he exclaims while throwing a servo in the direction of the screen, ". . . pretty much seals my fate on both sides of the equation. Either I'm a criminal to the Autobots or a traitor to the Decepticons! Who cares at this point how I cope with it!?"

"Knock Out, I know how this can be . . ." I try to interject before this escalates into a confrontation. I can see the murderous intent in his optics—it's a look I'm all too familiar with. He cuts me off once more.

"My health," he scoffs with piercing bitterness, "You could give a scrap about my health. This was you guys' plan the whole time, wasn't it?! Lure me into some false sense of security and then make an example out of me!"

Now, I know I need to remain calm and stay in control here. I know I need to get through to him in the most sensible way possible. I know I need to take a path leading to peace instead of an altercation. But I feel my spark thunder in fury within me at the accusation and absurdity of it all. How dare he even insinuate such a thing after everything we've done!? After everything we've been through!?

"Do you really think you're the only one having difficulty with this?!" I roar, narrowing my optics and noting his step backward, "I was sickened by this task; having to read through chronicles of pointless bloodshed, utter cruelty and outright lies! My energon _still_ boils remembering how we lost our home. The countless lives it took to get it back, the sacrifices we've had to make in order for it to even be possible. You can't actually believe we would just forsake all that cost, all that suffering, for something as petty as retribution against you!"

His growing look of shock and fear quickly collapses into a manifestation of confusion and rage.

"What am I supposed to think?! I'm disarmed, I'm prohibited from accessing resources and I can't even go for a drive without you people thinking I went AWOL! Now! . . . now, you're aware of more damaging information and I just can't see you or the council overlooking that! I didn't come this far just to lose. I'm telling you right now, I won't go quietly," he exclaims taking up a defensive position almost as if he were going to transform into vehicle mode. This was deteriorating quickly . . .

"Knock Out! Look around you! If we had wanted to get rid of you, wouldn't you think we'd have done it by now?!" I shout with a frustrated vent. His optics wildly dance between me and the door.

"I don't know! You didn't have this information before. Maybe you were waiting for a better opportunity!"

"You were unconscious last night! If that wasn't the most opportune time I don't know what is!"

"Well . . ." he pauses, uncertainty setting in as he glances to the floor. This may be my only chance to sway his opinion; to say what I really mean to.

"Listen. Megatron may have used execution as a means of solving his problems but that isn't how we resolve things here. Optimus never condoned revenge. He wanted peace. He died for peace. And I'm not allowing anyone to forget that, Decepticon or Autobot; not as long as I'm still around," I say solemnly. He raises his helm to look at me with saddened optics—was I actually getting through to him?

"I'll be honest, I never thought we should have granted you amnesty," I say bluntly, noticing the flicker of fear cross over him before I continue, "But Optimus did."

His reaction to those words genuinely surprises me. Unlike the snarky, arrogance I've come to know him for or the _get out of my way_ , _run for the hills_ Decepticon I've learned so much about, he's solemn, he's humbled and he's lost for words. Staring right at me is a lifetime of shared regret and parallel remorse. I'm thunderstruck as the following realization leaves my vocalizer.

"And I can finally see why."

He looks to me in a way I can only describe as awe. He can't believe what I've just said and neither can I. The war, the destruction of our home, the loss . . . the peace, the rebuilding of our home, and the gains. I've been angry and I've been patient. I've been bitter and I've been kind. I've been apathetic and caring; into the darkness and into the light. But, in all the personal struggles and private agony of raising Cybertron from the ashes, I forgot the point. I forgot I've never been alone.

_Till all are one, old friend._

The sound of Optimus' voice landing solidly in my spark.

We stand in silence. It's neither awkward nor pleasant but needed because we stand together. I finally accept the unseeable challenge my dear friend asked of me.

"I can't speak for anyone else, but when I say that I want to help you, it is because I do," I say sincerely. Knock Out nods, but I can see he's not satisfied. More accurately, he's not assured of his standing with us. Neither am I if I'm truthful. It will take a whole lot more than niceties to build this elusive trust we require.

If his life has been marked by the same pain as mine has, I know what I need to say.

"Knock Out, you're not just an ex-Decepticon or a new Autobot. You're part of _our_ family. And if that means protecting you from the council, so be it," I add firmly and decisively.

"Ratchet, I . . ." he sputters in disbelief. I don't know what he wants to express; gratitude? Apprehension? Maybe a combination of both, but, honestly, I don't care at this point. I just want reconciliation; for Optimus sake.

"Yip-ip-ip-ip. I mean every word. Now, let's focus on the remaining business of our supervision and discuss the plans of recourse afterward, shall we?"

He vents and with it I can see the tension leave him.

"Well, only because you asked so nicely," he says in his usual smug fashion, trying to lighten the mood, I'm sure. A return to normalcy. I decide to add to it for my own amusement.

"So, what did happen between you and Arcee last night?"

The look of pure surprise on his face; absolutely classic.

"Nothing," he says a bit too eagerly, before realizing it and going into some convoluted narrative about losing track of time and dropping off cliffs. As I listen, I smile. Despite the difficulty of the task before us, I can't help but smile.

After all, this is only the beginning.

" _Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing." 1 Peter 3:8-9_


End file.
